


Rebuttal

by jiminthetardis



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Terminal Illnesses, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiminthetardis/pseuds/jiminthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches her mostly out of the corner of his eye. His peripheral vision is something he’s proud of. The best part is that she can’t see him. Sometimes, he thinks she can feel him watching her. She smiles almost to herself as his eyes move over her body. But she doesn’t look back. She never looks back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebuttal

He watches her mostly out of the corner of his eye. His peripheral vision is something he’s proud of. The best part is that she can’t see him. Sometimes, he thinks she can feel him watching her. She smiles almost to herself as his eyes move over her body. But she doesn’t look back. She never looks back.

The Doctor leans against the console with his arms folded over his skinny chest. Engines hum beneath his feet. The gentle rumble is soothing and familiar, like a lover’s lullaby. He could fall asleep right then and there if only his head weren’t so full of his own thoughts.

Rose is sprawled across the jump seat, sleeping. She is lying on her back—one arm thrown protectively over her stomach, the other hanging limply off the edge of the seat. Her lips are parted slightly. Her eyes are closed. Her eye lids flutter.

Dreaming, the Doctor realizes. He wonders what images play out behind her eyes—those same gorgeous eyes that he’d like to spend all day in, if only they had time. Ironic, really, the he’s so worried about the limits of mortality. As a Time Lord, he’s seldom considered what his own end might mean.

But Rose’s death? It’s all he can think about lately. Ever since their trip to the Maroon Nebula, he can’t put her coming fate out of his mind. 

While they were in the nebula, they walked around the marketplace. The air was rich with the scent of food and the hiss of frying oil. Rose laced her fingers through the Doctor’s and dragged him along. “Why are you so grumpy, Doctor?”

He forced a smile. “Who, me? Who’s grumpy?”

Rose made a face, poking her tongue into the side of her cheek. “You can’t hide it from me, you know. I know you. You’re upset.”

"I’m not upset."

"Well, you’re certainly cross."

He couldn’t tell her that he’d had a nightmare about her death. He couldn’t bring himself to say aloud what he’d seen inside his head. If he brought it up to her at all, it would only be when he’d received some sort of conscious confirmation.

The Doctor’s proof came in the form of a purple blob covered in reddish-brown hair. Of course, she wasn’t called that. Her name was Batessa. She claimed to be a psychic. She grabbed the Doctor’s arm and held it tight until he stopped. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

"Your companion," said Batessa, "is going to die."

Instinctively, he reached for Rose and put his arm around her shoulders. “I beg your pardon?”

"I’m Batessa the psychic. Rose Tyler of Earth, you are straddling two words. While you walk in this life, you tiptoe in the other."

Rose stared, dumbfounded. Normally she would’ve shaken the woman’s words off. But something in Batessa’s tone seemed to give her pause. She turned toward the Doctor, burying her side against his chest.

Batessa touched the Doctor’s hand. “You need to tell her what you saw. It is not fair to keep such a vision to yourself.”

The Doctor felt Rose’s warm breath against his skin. She was warm. Warm, young, and full of life. There was no way she could die.

He was unnaturally cold. Sweat beaded on his skin and didn’t evaporate until he’d finished telling Rose what he’d seen in the dream. Without saying a word, she pulled away from him and sprinted back to the TARDIS.

A week passed. Two. It was then that Rose decided to be honest with the Doctor. She had, she said, been meaning to tell him what was going on. She hadn’t wanted to spoil their happiness, she told him. So she’d kept it to herself. But she couldn’t any longer.

Back in the present, the Doctor swallows. The memory of her confession is mere days old, and it still stings like so many nettles. Cancer, he thinks, is too simple a word for so awful an illness. Even malignant neoplasm doesn’t fit the bill. It hangs from the disease like an oversized sweater—ill-fitting, ugly, and only loosely practical.

The Doctor drinks in every inch of his companion. He notes, with a touch of amusement, that her cancer-ridden body is still attractive to him. Her skin is still supple. Her face is still full. Looking at her, it would be difficult to get a sense of the extent of her illness.

But the Doctor has instruments. He has computers. He has technology. He runs tests, records measurements, and looks at her daily (though he’d prefer hourly, Rose won’t allow it). Maybe, he thinks, today will be different. Maybe today she won’t be close to dying.

Beneath her clothes, beneath her skin, inside her bones and organs, it waits. The one thing strong enough to tear Rose Marion Tyler from the Earth against her will, and he’s powerless to stop it. It’s too late. He’s tried.

To her credit, Rose has been a trooper. She’s let him run his silly tests. She rolls up her sleeve when he wants to draw blood and doesn’t flinch when the needle goes in. When he wants to take her temperature, she opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. There are no more questions. There are no protestations. She does what he asks her because she loves him. He knows this even though she never says so.

The Doctor blames himself. He takes in the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps in the jump seat, and he hates himself. What was he thinking, taking her to the Jeb Federation? He knew the risks. He knew that, sometimes, the air was filled with high-level radiation. Why hadn’t he tested it before bringing her out?

What made it worse was that she never complained. The whole time that they were walking around, she never mentioned her headache or her growing nausea. She never told the Doctor that her cells were in revolt.

He closes his eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. She doesn’t like it when he beats himself up. He tries, for her sake, to go easy on himself. She had a neighbor who died from cancer. A perfectly ordinary woman. People got cancer living ordinary lives. She was just as much at risk while living on Earth.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Guess I fell asleep."

The Doctor’s eyes open. Rose is sitting up, staring at him. She rubs her eyes and yawns. He feels his hearts clench.

"Doctor? What’s wrong?"

Where does he start? I’m terrified of losing you? You promised me forever, and I’d planned to have you even longer? I hate myself more and more each and every day because I’m powerless to save you?

The Doctor shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Rose. Go back to sleep.”

Sighing, she rises from the jump seat and walks over to the console. She wraps her arms around his skinny torso and presses her cheek into his coat. He buries his face in her hair. She smells like lavender shampoo and the leather from the seat.

"You can go get into bed and sleep there," he says.

He feels her smile against his chest. “I’ll only go if you come with me.”

The Doctor lets her lead him by the hand into the bedroom. He follows her though he could easily lead. He would follow her to the ends of the earth, of time, of space—of her own life, if she would let him. If the universe would let him.

For now, he’s content to show Rose that, while death may have the final say, he can make a skilled rebuttal.


End file.
